


The Enemy of My Enemy is a Lemon

by lears_daughter



Category: 30 Rock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-25
Updated: 2010-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-07 13:21:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lears_daughter/pseuds/lears_daughter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an AU where Devon Banks was made Vice President of East Coast Television Programming (but not Microwave Ovens!), Jack Donaghy meets Devon’s subordinate-slash-date, Liz Lemon, at Gerhardt Hapsburg’s birthday party. They bond over a common goal: bringing Devon down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Enemy of My Enemy is a Lemon

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own 30 Rock.

Jack Donaghy likes to think of himself as an impressive specimen of humanity. He almost seems more than human sometimes, with his incredible (well, formerly incredible, currently very impressive) good looks, his wit and charm, his money, and, above all, his ambition. In fact, he supposes it wouldn’t be much of a stretch to call himself _super_human.

Which is why he refuses to give in to the depression that would surely have overtaken any other man in his dire and tragic circumstances. Just a few months ago he was denied the promotion of a lifetime without apology or excuse from his personal hero, Don Geiss. Since then he’s gone through a series of meaningless romances, culminating in a three-week-long affair with a 25-year-old supermodel who revealed just yesterday that she is in fact 28 years old, leading him to drop her like a non-GE microwave, resulting in him having to come alone to his good friend Gerhardt Hapsburg’s birthday party. Finally, as if fate hadn’t already dealt him a terrible enough hand, moments ago he spotted that spectacular D-bag, Devon Banks—the man who’d taken the job that was rightfully his—strolling down the stairs into the ballroom as if he had the right to even breathe the same air as Jack.

Jack briefly entertains the hope that Devon won’t notice him—or, at least, will have the decency to stay on the other side of the room for the duration of the party—but of course that hope is dashed when Devon makes a beeline toward him, a hideous jackal grin taking over his long face.

Watching his enemy’s approach out of the corner of his eye, Jack takes note of the brunette at his side. She’s older than he’d expect, probably in her mid-thirties, and mildly attractive rather than beautiful. There is something eye-catching about the way her red dress hugs her body, though, and he’s certain the diamonds that grace her neck are hired rather than owned. Her arm is looped through Devon’s, but her smile is strained and Jack thinks she almost seems to be leaning as far away from him as she can.

“Jack!” Devon shouts, drawing too many eyes for Jack’s comfort. He thrusts out his hand. “You pathetic excuse for an executive, how are you?”

Jack eyes the hand with disdain. “Devon. As always, your coming is preceded by the smell of tanning spray and tooth whitening cream.”

Devon snorts. “Oh yeah? Well, as always, your coming is not preceded. Because nobody cares about it.”

Devon’s date elbows him firmly in the ribs. Jack decides that he likes her.

“Ow!” Devon screeches, shifting his glare to her. “What was that for?”

“Why don’t you introduce me to your friend, honey?” she says through clenched teeth.

“Hon—oh. Right.” Devon drapes his arm around her shoulders. For a moment she looks like she wants to vomit, then that semi-queasy smile returns. “Liz, this is Jack Donaghy. He works for GE but isn’t nearly as important as I am. Jack, this is my girlfriend, Liz Lemon, head writer for The Girlie Show. Trust me, she’s usually hotter than she is tonight. Way hotter.”

At that, apparently Liz Lemon has had enough. She jerks out from under Devon’s arm and snaps, “I’m going to find some food and some booze, in whichever order comes first. Excuse me.”

She storms toward the bar, pausing to snatch an hors d’oeuvres off the tray of a passing waiter. Jack watches her go, his head tilted slightly, his eyes glued to a portion of her anatomy significantly lower than her head. Huh. Who knew someone so old could still be enticing?

“Don’t even think about it,” Devon says, following Jack’s gaze. Jack raises an eyebrow in question. “Don’t try to get between us. Liz is totally devoted to me. She has no desire whatsoever to tap—” Devon waves his hand at Jack as if to encompass Jack’s entire body “—_that_.” Devon looks as if he might go on forever, but then his gaze latches onto a hot young waiter and suddenly his mouth is a little slack. “I’ve got to go,” he stutters, and stumbles away.

Jack decides that he needs a strong drink. Not because he’s hoping to run into Liz Lemon at the bar and wring dirt about Devon out of her, of course. He’s just thirsty.

He rounds the corner into the bar and there she is, sitting on a stool, sipping at a glass of white wine, with a heaping mound of shrimp on a plate in front of her. He keeps his stride confident and purposeful as he takes the seat next to her. She doesn’t appear to notice him until he orders a whiskey, straight up, and then she jerks her head up, wide-eyed with panic until she catches sight of him.

“Oh, thank God,” she says, slumping with relief. “I thought you were Devon. He does that growly, TV announcer, low-voiced thing, too.”

“I did it first,” he tells her quickly.

Her lips twitch, as if that were a joke. “Right,” she says. She eats three shrimp so quickly that, even watching her the whole time, he doesn’t understand how it’s physically possible.

His drink arrives. He takes a sip. “So, The Girlie Show,” he says casually.

“Lemme guess. You’ve never seen it.”

“Of course I’ve seen it.” Her eyes—dark and almost shark-like, he thinks—narrow in disbelief. “There was a time when it looked like I was going to be the next Vice President of East Coast Television and Microwave Oven Programming.”

She smiles knowingly. “Ah, so Devon got your job.”

“He got part of my job,” he corrects her. “I’m still Head of Microwave Ovens. But, yes, Devon managed to steal the television away from me. Anyway, when I was still hopeful I’d get the job, I researched all of NBC’s shows, including The Girlie Show.”

She pops another shrimp in her mouth and washes it down with a gulp of wine. “What’d you think?” Her voice has a hint of wry humor to it, like she knows what his answer’s going to be.

So he rejects his initial assessment of the show—which is that it’s terrible and doesn’t deserve to be on the air—in favor of surprising her. “I think it’s got a lot of potential that’s currently being squandered. The writing is good, but the show lacks a star of high enough caliber to attract an audience beyond commies and the morbidly obese.”

Suddenly he has all of her attention. “What kind of star would actually want to be on my show?”

He shrugs. “My friend Tracy Jordan would probably be interested. He’s been talking about getting involved with television, ever since he was expelled from the set of _Who Dat Ninja 3_ for peeing in the staff coffee machine.”

“Tracy Jordan,” she repeats skeptically.

He lifts his glass to his mouth as if to hide his secretive smile.

“I think I’ll settle for Jenna and hope that the commies and morbidly obese stick with us enough to keep us on the air,” she says.

“That’s certainly your prerogative,” he replies. “I’m certain Devon has plenty of strategies to improve your ratings, anyway.”

She gets that queasy look again. “Uh, no. Devon doesn’t get any say in creative decisions after that time he hired ten male strippers as dancers on the show.”

Of course he didn’t. Devon wouldn’t know a sense of humor if it bit him on his probably-miniscule testicles. Ha.

“Lemon, you’re not actually dating Devon, are you?” he asks once she’s finished her glass, been handed another by the bar tender, and drained most of that one too. He isn’t sure why he calls her by her surname, but it feels right.

“Oh, no,” she says, waving her finger in his face.

“No, what?”

“No, we’re not doing this. I’m not gonna give you dirt on Devon, Jack. He’s my boss. If he finds out, he’ll have me fired, and while the show’s a mess and most of my staff drive me insane, I really don’t want to have to do improv on the subway to try to make enough to survive.”

He smiles in satisfaction. She glares. “What?” she demands.

“You’re not dating Devon.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m going to get more shrimp."

He glances at her plate and is shocked to see that it’s empty. Then he looks up again and sees something that makes his heart freeze.

“Oh, no,” he mutters.

Lemon pauses in the process of trying to balance her plate on the same arm as the hand that’s holding her wine. “What?”

“It’s my ex-wife, Bianca. She’s here with her fiancé.” He can hear his own voice soften but is helpless to prevent it. “She’s so beautiful. I think she’s lost weight. Oh, God,” he realizes, “she’s here with her fiancé and I’m _alone_. She’s going to laugh in my face. That bitch. How dare she be happy!”

“I’m gonna go now,” Lemon announces, and leaves.

About half an hour later, Jack is slightly drunk and standing in a corner of the ballroom, swaying to the music, when Bianca finally spots him. Of course she isn’t content to pretend that they don’t know each other and instead heads straight for him, accompanied by her ridiculously handsome, tall, thin fiancé.

“Johnny!” she exclaims, kissing him on each cheek. “It’s so good to see you!”

“Hello, Bianca,” he grits out. “You’re looking lovely.”

She smiles knowingly—a little smugly. “This is my fiancé, Vincent Foley.” She makes an exaggerated show of looking around. “Oh, Johnny,” she says sadly, “are you here alone?”

He feels his face turn red. He wishes for the earth to open up and swallow him. He wishes for a hurricane to strike New York City. He wishes—

“Jack, honey, who’s this?”

He blinks in astonishment as Lemon appears out of nowhere and loops her arm through his, leaning against him enough for him to feel the warmth of her body. He realizes that his mouth is hanging open and hurriedly clamps it shut. He fights a grin as Bianca’s eyes just about bug out of her head.

“This is my ex-wife, Bianca,” he says. “Bianca, this is my live-in girlfriend, Liz.”

Perhaps skeptically, Bianca inquires, “And how did you two meet?”

Before his flustered mind can even begin to think up a story, Lemon says, with a winning, edgy smile, “It was part of the big brother little sister program.”

Bianca laughs. “Congratulations John, she's much sharper than the last girl you had. What was her name?”

“Beyonce,” Jack says, keeping his face bland as Lemon shoots him an incredulous look.

“And unlike the rest of Jack's girlfriends, I have all my original parts,” Lemon adds after a moment.

Jack can practically hear Bianca’s teeth grind together. All she says, however, is, “Oh, hang on to this one, John. She's a keeper.” Then she and Victor—Vincent? whatever—hurry away.

Once he’s sure Bianca is out of earshot, Jack says, “Lemon, that was incredible. Thank you.”

She carefully pries her arm away from his with a nervous smile. “You looked really needy. Kind of like Luke when he was being hit by the Emperor’s force lightning.”

He stares blankly at her. “Whatever. The point is, I owe you.” He takes a deep breath. “I want to help your show flourish.”

Her face somehow becomes even pointier, making her look like a suspicious badger. “What do you mean?”

“I think we should work together. I’m brilliant and ambitious and you’re obviously smart. If we join forces to depose Devon, I’ll get his job and I promise to do everything I can to make TGS a success.”

“TGS?” she repeats, her brow furrowed.

“Audiences like acronyms, Lemon, keep up,” he says.

“How the hell do you expect us to depose Devon?”

“Think about it. Why did you come here tonight?”

“Devon threatened to fire half my staff if I didn’t.”

“Yes, but why did he want you here?”

She frowns thoughtfully. After a while she offers, “Because I look hot in a red dress?”

He snorts. He can’t help it. “Lemon, you might be many things, but hot is not one of them.” Her eyes flash with hurt and anger and he wonders where his usual charm went. “Women over the age of 30 cannot be hot,” he informs her, almost apologetically. “You do look very nice, however.”

She seems mildly appeased. “Fine, so if my looks aren’t the reason, then why?”

He’s a little surprised she hasn’t figured it out already. “Good God, Lemon, you’re his _beard_.”

“Wait, what? Devon is _gay_?” She blinks. “Nope, I can’t even pretend to be surprised. That explains a lot, actually.”

“I didn’t realize until tonight, if it makes you feel better.”

“How does knowing that Devon is gay help us, though?”

He eyes her warily. “You’re not serious.”

“What?” she says defensively. “It’s not the 19th century, Jack. Men are allowed to be gay. It’s _wrong_ to be prejudiced against gays. No one should care.”

He pats her on the shoulder. (Then wonders at himself for initiating such casual contact with someone he’s known for all of half an hour. He doesn’t even think he’s trying to make a move on her.) “Your naïveté is both charming and alarming, Lemon. Of course people shouldn’t care, but people—and by people, I mean Don Geiss, CEO of GE—do care. They care quite a lot. If this gets out, it could be the end of him.”

She seems both outraged by his assertion and intrigued by the prospect of outing Devon to Geiss. “How could we get proof, though?”

“I find that video evidence always works well in these circumstances. Is there anyone at NBC who’s caught Devon’s attention?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Kenneth.” Before he can ask—and proving that she’s more on his wavelength than he suspected—she adds, “We can use him. He’s sweet but simple.”

He strokes his chin. “Say we get Kenneth and Devon alone in an elevator together. Say we convince Kenneth to act in an alluring manner. Could you get hold of the elevator security camera footage?”

Lemon grins the grin of a co-conspirator. “I could.”

“You get me that footage, and I can get it to Don Geiss,” he says eagerly.

“No.”

He blinks. “What?”

“No, we can’t get Devon fired that way. It’s _wrong_.”

He finds himself forced to reassess her again. Clearly she’s insane. “Lemon, we’re talking about the man who blackmailed you into coming to a party as his beard.”

“Exactly,” she agrees.

He feels the uncomfortable, unfamiliar feeling of incomprehension. “I’m sorry, what?”

“We blackmail Devon!” Okay, so she may be crazy, but she’s also devious and clearly less morally constricted than he thought. “Give him the opportunity to resign. Then, if he refuses, we out him.”

“Lemon,” Jack announces, “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful partnership.”

He holds out his hand and after a moment she shakes it. Her hand is warm and firm in his and he feels—and suppresses—a strong desire to run his thumb over her skin.

They part ways for a while and it is only once he’s alone again that Jack remembers to pine for Bianca. Lemon rescues the evening for him again—basically, she establishes herself as the official highlight of the party, even better than the high-quality booze and lobster tails—when she first comforts him by telling him that Bianca is pining for him, too, (which he doesn’t believe) and then proves it by telling Bianca that they’re engaged, which results in a rather entertaining and worrisome assault upon Lemon’s person.

On the other hand, he gets the chance to see Lemon’s top back and top front quadrants, which makes him even more eager to work with her. (He never claimed to be an altruist.)

When the cake comes out, Jack finds himself drifting over to stand beside her. He’s surprised and impressed that she can speak German. Events get a little fuzzy after that, but apparently Lemon’s friend (and star) Jenna somehow causes Gerhardt’s death, which effectively ends the party.

“I think that’s our cue to leave,” Lemon announces. They head to the exit together. “Jack,” Lemon says slowly.

“What?”

“Your hand is on my back.”

Why, yes, he realizes, it is. Her lower back, to be exact. How did that happen?

“Do you want me to move it?” he asks, his voice low. He’s not sure whether he’s teasing her or trying to seduce her.

“Uh, yeah. Please. We’re partners in crime, not partners in, y’know, anything else. Funky business.”

He obediently moves his hand away. He pulls his card from his suit pocket and hands it to her. “So you can get in touch with me,” he says as his limo pulls up at the curb. “Can I give you a ride?”

“Thanks, but that would be weird. I’ll take the subway.”

He nods. “Well…I hope to hear from you soon.”

“Yeah, me too.” She looks around. “Where is Devon, anyway?”

“Probably molesting a waiter,” Jack says.

“Oh.” Her nose wrinkles. “Poor waiter.” She shifts her weight (127 very attractive pounds, he thinks) from one foot to the other. “Well, good night.”

“Good night, Lemon.” He steps forward and kisses her on the cheek, enjoying the way her eyes go wide and she sort of leans back and then freezes in place. “It was very nice to meet you.”

Her hand touches her cheek. “Blerg!” she says.

He doesn’t know what that means. Before he can ask, she spins on her heel and hurries away, stumbling a little as her heel catches on a crack in the sidewalk.

He climbs into the limo and shuts the door. As it pulls away from the curb he pumps his fist. “Vice President of East Coast Television and Microwave Oven Programming! That’s right, Jackie-boy!” He reclines in his seat, stretching his feet out in front of him, a smile playing on his lips. A few minutes pass. His smile turns speculative. “Liz Lemon,” he says thoughtfully. “Huh.”


End file.
